It may seem a little extreme to say that I'm embarrassed to be a member of the baby boomer generation. After all, we're the biggest and most successful generation since that small bunch of ex-Englishfolk baled on the Not-So-Great British tax structure and declared that this was the future home of hippies and millionaires. But alas, I must admit it… I can't stand shoulder to shoulder with my gen-mates and hold my head up next to a bunch of people who smoked enough marijuana to stone the current population of India when they start pounding their sagging middle-aged chests and spouting off about how kids today shouldn't even think of experimenting with drugs.

Let's get this announcement straight: Who the hell are they kidding? What a bunch of two-faced bastards. "Just say No????" - like any one of us even considered that option when we were riding that six story waterslide called puberty on through our early twenties. We grabbed for all the gusto we could handle, and occasionally reaped the fruits of overindulgence, which more than likely looked like waking up on some friend's lawn wondering why the bed suddenly came complete with the occasional dandelion.

I might be willing to tolerate the Partnership for a Drug Free America if they were as anxious to stop all the people popping unnecessary - but prescribed - drugs as they are to put an end to the only thing the first twenty-five years of human life are good for - Pushing the envelope to the fullest while one is still young and resilient. I might also be more tolerant of the drug war if we actually napalmed the hell out of the poppy and coca fields that were doing the supplying. But we don't - we pay their governments to stop their farmer from doing the only thing that makes them money - and SURPRISE, it doesn' work.

Take, for example, the kids in the basement commercial. There they are, safe at home, engaged in nothing more notorious than playing video games, when one of the throng implores the kid whose house it apparently is to 'break out some of that weed." Our friend cracks open his wooden stash box only to find a note that says "We need to talk - Mom". Let's assume that the conversation isn't going to be about Mom having pinched little Marvin's stash so she could get high. This is about her child's descent into the writhing hell of - mary-ju-wanna. Yipe. Call the Cops or The National Guard or maybe even President Bush, who, it has been reported, was into the nose candy, back in the day.

But, hey, let's run screaming to make commercials against smoking dope.